


And So We Shall Go Caroling

by hurricanine



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Eventual Smut, Inspired by A Christmas Carol, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-12-02
Packaged: 2018-01-03 00:20:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurricanine/pseuds/hurricanine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night before the heist in Ludendorff, Michael is visited by the three Ghosts of Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired, of course, by _A Christmas Carol_ by Charles Dickens. The quotes located at the beginning of the chapters are taken directly from the novella.

 

 

> _“Christmas a humbug, uncle!” said Scrooge’s nephew. “You don’t mean that, I am sure?”_  
>               _“I do,” said Scrooge. “Merry Christmas! what right have you to be merry? what reason have you to be merry? You're poor enough.”_  
>               _“Come then,” returned the nephew gaily. “What right have you to be dismal? what right have you to be morose? You're rich enough.”_

 

The city slept beneath a foot of snow. The streetlights cast a yellow glow onto the roads, undisturbed by the passage of cars. A biting wind carried a fresh dusting of white powder, thin and dry like sugar lining the masonry. From every storefront blinked arrays of dazzling lights. From every house awning hung glimmerings of red and green. There was a silence in the air that was so prominent it felt as if the world entire was holding its breath.

Things were substantially less festive within the Sleep Inn, a motel just outside of Ludendorff, North Yankton. There was a chill in the room that the radiator hadn't quite been able to relieve and the small table was largely taken up by a miniature plastic Christmas tree. The rest of the available space was occupied by a case of Pißwasser and several handguns.

Michael watched Trevor stomp his boots beside the door, chunks of ice and snow clinging to the laces. He cracked open a beer, seeking distraction in the bottle, but his gaze returned to the broad line of Trevor's back as he bent over to take off his shoes.

Trevor must have caught him looking, because he straightened and fixed Michael in place with a familiar smirk.

“Tomorrow's the big day, Mikey.” Trevor – and there really was no other word for it – sauntered closer, plucking the beer from Michael's hands. He took a long drink, tilting his head back to gift Michael with the sight of his throat as he swallowed, and handed the beer back half-empty.

“Tomorrow,” Michael repeated faintly. The smirk was quick to return to Trevor's face, somehow now even more smug.

“Tomorrow? Big guns, big explosions, big money?” He mimed shooting with his hands and grinned. “C'mon, you've been planning this thing for a month.” He slapped Michael's shoulder. “Don't tell me you've got cold feet now!”

“Of course not.” Michael hardened his eyes into a glare, pressing the head of the bottle to his mouth and drinking to cover his slip.

Tomorrow. It was a good heist, as far as bank robberies went – three days before Christmas meant security would be light and police response sluggish at best. They would walk out of there with a quarter mil', easy. It wasn't hard to see why Brad and Trevor were in such high spirits. They didn't know that they were walking into a trap, that every passing moment brought the noose around their necks another inch tighter.

It was just putting down a mad dog. Those had been Davey's words; they had circled 'round and 'round in Michael's head for days now. One shot, a clean kill – it had to be done for the animal's own good, once the rabies set in their wasn't any other option, the dog wasn't properly a dog anymore, just a _beast_.

Said beast currently had a paw on Michael's hip and was drawing him in closer. Michael sighed and gave into it, letting Trevor press against him. Even through several layers of clothing, and especially after a day of trundling through subzero weather, Trevor was deliciously warm. Better was Trevor's lips on his, tasting like beer and the banana peppers he had put on his sandwich that evening. Michael let it go on for a moment longer, before pushing the other man away a little too roughly.

“Not tonight, Trevor,” Michael muttered. He shoved his beer unceremoniously into Trevor's hands and grabbed a fresh one for himself. He was quick turning away as he twisted off the cap, though not quick enough to avoid the flicker in Trevor's eyes. Mixed up in the usual lust and want was something that looked too much like pain, too much like the fear of rejection, for Michael's comfort.

“Yeah, you're a better fuck after a score anyway,” Trevor threw back. Michael flipped him off without looking.

\- - -

Michael leaned against the headboard, remote in one hand and beer in the other. There wasn't much on television at this time of night, so he flipped through the channels as more of an idle distraction than a want for something to watch. There were a few infomercials trying to sell everything from porcelain cat figurines to timeshares in Florida, weather calling for more snow, and an endless loop, likely running since Thanksgiving, of old Christmas movies.

Swallowing a mouthful of lukewarm beer, Michael settled on the black and white footage of _A Christmas Carol_. A proper classic, he noted with a fond smile. He glanced at the next bed over, but Trevor was already asleep, somehow having managed to make an utter mess of his blankets and pillows. Michael rolled his eyes and looked back at the dim television set.

Mean ol' Scrooge, now there was a piece of work. Michael raised his bottle towards the screen. Humbug indeed. Nothing like spoiling the Yuletide cheer by robbing a bank three days before Christmas and stabbing his crew in the back.

He wondered if Amanda was still awake. He could find a payphone, but Michael wasn't sure what he would say even if he did brave the wind and snow to make a call. He wouldn't mind hearing from Tracey, though – if she wasn't still pretending that talking to her dad was uncool. Jimmy probably wouldn't have anything to say, apart from his usual begging for a new video game system for Christmas.

They had no idea that by this time tomorrow their lives would be changed forever. A new last name, a house in a new city, brand new lives for the Townley family; all Michael had to do was sell his soul.

Somewhere between the apparition of Jacob Marley and the appearance of the first Ghost, Michael felt his eyelids begin to grow heavy. When Tracey and Jimmy were younger, and when he was still making an effort to get home in time for Christmas, they had tried to make a tradition of watching movies together. Amanda always fell asleep on his shoulder halfway through _It's a Wonderful Life_ , and the kids whined and wiggled until Michael gave up and put in _Nightmare Before Christmas_.

Michael dozed off, but woke with a jolt. Though it felt as if scarcely a moment had passed, the digital clock on the nightstand now read 12:59 a.m. He stifled a yawn and was about to roll over and go back to sleep when something caught his eye.

At the foot of the bed stood a woman. The room seemed all the more darker in the sight of her ethereal light, and Michael rubbed his bleary eyes as he sat up.

“Mandy?”

“Michael,” she called. Her voice was so sweet in his ears, but as he leaned towards her, he saw that it was not his wife. She was incredibly beautiful, a woman the likes of which he had never seen, and, though there was something of Amanda in the sure tilt of her chin and the the sly turn of her lips, it was certainly not her.

It wasn't cheating if he was dreaming, surely. Michael smirked and settled his back against the headboard.

The woman's hair fell in loose chestnut waves and she wore a crown of autumn leaves and bramble stems. The cowl which fell about her shoulders, as well as her gossamer robe, was lined with long feathers of tawny and cream. She was barefoot and made no sound as she walked to his side; here and there her robe parted, revealing pale glimpses of her long legs.

“I like where this is goin',” Michael murmured, feeling no shame in letting his gaze linger. His imagination was proving to be unprecedentedly thorough tonight.

“I am the first,” the woman said. There was something in her voice that made his heart ache, perhaps in want of Amanda. Her voice reminded him of the soft calling of an owl somewhere in the unmeasured distance. “I come with the tolling of the first bell.”

“Alright,” Michael said blithely. He reached out his hand to catch the sleeve of her robe, but the feathers which covered the thin material rippled and moved, as if blown by the force of some unfelt breeze, out of his grasp.

The woman tilted her head, her wide eyes curious. “I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.”

“Yeah, right.” He grinned and tried to reach for her again, reaching and reaching until he was leaning out from the bed. The woman's gaze turned sharp and when her fingers closed about his wrist, he saw that they ended in curved talons.

“Come,” she whispered. She pulled and Michael's stomach lurched as he felt himself begin to fall. “Come, and you will see.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the lovely Aja; our discussions regarding Michael and Trevor were incredibly helpful to the formative process. <3

 

> _“You recollect the way!” inquired the Spirit._  
>                _“Remember it!” cried Scrooge with fervor - “I could walk it blindfold.”_  
>                _“Strange to have forgotten it for so many years!” observed the Ghost. “Let us go on.”_

 

The little towns and cities of the world fell away, fading into the broad countryside. In the fields below, the snow caught the moon's gleam like a harvest of diamonds. Michael felt no fear of falling; the woman, no doubt some vision conjured up by his repressed sexual desires, led him by the wrist in a fantastic flight. She soared at his side, her robe billowing out like the expansive wings of a barn owl.

He really needed to stop drinking before bed.

The flight ended and they touched down in the yard of a small home. The grass was covered in patches of trampled snow, littered with snowballs and half-finished snowmen. There were no decorations on the front of the house, nor on the houses to either side, but there were many lights within and candles glowing from the windowsill.

Michael turned to face the Ghost, rubbing his hands together for warmth. “So, do you have a name?”

The Ghost did not look away from the house before them. “This is for you, Michael. I am merely a guide.”

“Yeah, but you're a ghost, right? So that means you were a person at some point. You must've had a name.”

She glanced over, a light shining in the depths of her eyes. “I am not a ghost, not as you know them. I am Christmas – each that has come and then passed. In three days time, I will embody that Christmas as well.”

Michael stilled. “You know what happens, then?”

The Ghost shook her head, her hair catching in the thorns of her crown. “I do not.” She spread her arms and the gossamer robe seemed part of her, the feathers flowing from her pale skin. “Such questions will be answered in time, but that time is not now. This is the past, Michael – your past.”

“This...” Michael found his feet on the steps of the porch, and he hesitated. The Ghost was at his side, her downy feathers brushing against his jacket.

“This is your home,” she spoke, though it was unnecessary. Michael knew exactly where he was.

The doorknob turned without being touched, the door opening inward. As he stepped over the threshold, the scent of his mother's cooking overwhelmed his senses. It had been years since he had smelled that pot roast, and instantly his mouth began to water. For a long time he simply stood in the hall and breathed in. A voice called from the other room, muted by the distance, but still achingly familiar.

“ _Mi_ chael... Dinner's ready, sweetie!”

He took a step forward and stumbled, nearly running straight into a little boy with untidy black hair. The boy did not seem to notice him, but laughed and darted into the kitchen, little feet pattering on the yellowed linoleum tiles. Cautiously, he followed.

“There's my little man.” His mother beamed, crouching to pull the little boy into a hug. “All washed up?”

“Yeah!” Michael watched as the boy pulled away and stood on the tips of his toes, trying to see into the pot simmering on the counter. His mother tutted and steered him towards the tiny fold-out table in the corner. The plates were already set, a cup of juice marking little Michael's seat.

Michael leaned against the doorframe, unable to look away. Everything was exactly how he remembered, though he'd gone without thinking about his mother for years. She looked tired, but happy; her hair was pulled back, a few strands falling loose, as she always wore it when she cooked, and she wore no make-up, but to Michael she was nothing but beautiful. He wished he had been around more, before she died.

“Mom,” he said weakly. He felt the Ghost's hand tighten around his wrist, her talons scraping against his skin, but the grip relaxed.

“She is but a shade. These are but visions – they can neither see you, nor hear you.”

Michael nodded slowly and gazed into the long-forgotten memory.

“Alright, squirt – if you eat all of your carrots, you get dessert, but not a moment sooner!”

The little boy wiggled in his chair, grinning up with a gap-toothed smile. “What about presents?”

“Presents?” His mother put one hand on her hip, pretending to think. “Now that you mention it... a big fat man in a big red suit was here earlier – Mister Claus, he said he was - and he left a whole pile of presents in the living room.” She smiled and covered her mouth, gasping theatrically. “Could those be _your_ presents?”

The boy's mouth hung open and he clambered down from the chair, half out the door before his mother caught him up in her arms. “Not until you've finished supper, little mister. And _each_ and _every_ carrot!”

“I remember this Christmas,” Michael said quietly, enraptured by the scene before him. The Ghost was still at his side, her feathered hand in his. “It was the year my father was in prison.”

The Ghost nodded – Michael had a feeling he didn't need to explain. If she was truly the Ghost of Christmas Past, then she knew all of the Christmases he had spent in his room, waiting until his father had passed out drunk on the couch, and how he would creep into his mother's room and climb into her bed, hugging her tight around the neck and whispering, _Merry Christmas_.

A flurry of snow passed beyond the window, the tiny crystals catching Michael's eye. Before he could blink, the snow was all around him, obscuring the vision of his happy Christmas at home. When it cleared, he was in a foreign place, the Ghost still standing beside him.

“Where are we?” he asked, his voice hushed. The apartment was quiet, too dark and lifeless for the holidays. Michael stepped forward, curiosity winning over the growing feeling of trepidation. Something crunched beneath his shoe and he wrinkled his nose at the squished remains of a cockroach.

“Another childhood Christmas,” said the Ghost. When Michael looked at her, he saw that her luminous eyes were surrounded by tiny feathers. “This Christmas is not your own, but I think you will understand its purpose here.”

There was no Christmas tree in the apartment, no presents left beside the door. At first, Michael assumed that no one was home and he turned to question the Ghost – but she simply shook her head, still beautiful beneath her feathers and flowing robes, and pointed towards the door at the end of the hall. There was a single light within, the dull yellow glow of a table lamp; Michael stopped in the doorway, carefully leaning within to see what the Ghost had brought him here to see.

A boy sat on the bed, his knees drawn up against his chest, and tilted a little toy plane from side to side. He didn't make up the sounds for it, as most children do as they play, but instead flew it in slow, silent loops and rolls above his bed. He wore a pair of old pajamas, one size too small and left pale from being washed too many times. The boy yawned and rubbed his eyes with the back of one hand, his dark hair a twisted mess atop his head. It was late and the boy couldn't have been more than five years old – why was he alone, and on Christmas day?

Michael stepped into the room and the door fell shut with a soft click. The boy looked up and for one heart-stopping moment, Michael thought he had been noticed. But there was a commotion from the other end of the apartment and the boy hid his plane beneath his pillow and pulled the covers up to his chin.

“ _Trevor_!”

Michael flinched at the sharp screech and his heart sank as he noticed the child do the same. Quickly, the boy clambered out of his bed, darting across the room to open the door.

“Y-Yes, ma?”

The woman, exceedingly plain beneath her make-up and revealing clothing, leaned down to pinch the boy on the cheek.

“Merry Christmas, little boy. Now, what'd you get for your dear ma?”

Trevor's eyes widened, impossibly big as they stared up at his mother. “I- I-” He stumbled back. “Ma, I-”

“You- You- You-” Mrs. Philips mocked. “You _what_? You forgot to get your own mother a Christmas present?”

Tears sprung to the boy's eyes and Michael's hands curled into fists. He stepped between the two apparitions, too blind with anger and the need to protect an innocent child to realize that his actions were in vain. It was as the Ghost said – the woman passed right through him and Michael shuddered, leaning hard against the door. He closed his eyes against the sound of a frightened boy's cries, muffled as he tried to hold back his fear.

“Open your eyes, Michael. The vision is gone.”

He shook his head, but the spirit took his hand and he had no choice; she gazed back at him with the barn owl's unblinking gaze, her crown of thorns and leaves now caught amid tawny feathers.

“I didn't need to see that,” Michael spat. He tried to wrench his hand away, but the Ghost held fast. The flurry of snow was still fading around them, revealing a motel room identical to any number he had stayed in over the years.

“This is for you, Michael,” the Ghost said once more. “You see only what you are meant to see, what you _must_ see.”

“Fuck that.” Michael ground his teeth, agitated at the mere concept, but he lost momentum for his anger when he heard the sound of riotous laughter. Over his shoulder, he watched two men enter the hotel room – himself, some years younger than he was now, and Trevor.

They were both still lean, probably living off of what little they could steal from gas stations and dollar stores, but there was genuine happiness there and the joy that comes with freedom. Michael remembered this Christmas: the first of their partnership. He remembered it in a hazy sort of way, which is to say he remembered drinking quite heavily beforehand and being violently sick afterward. Michael smiled and was, for the first time, content to let the scene unfold.

The men staggered across the room, tracking in mud and sloppy snow. They fell, more than sat, into chairs a the table, and Trevor poured them two glasses from a larger pitcher.

“Merry Christmas, T,” the younger Michael said, lifting his glass of eggnog. He took a sip and nearly spit it out, tears burning in his eyes as he swallowed. “What the _fuck_ is in this?”

Trevor's grin was wide and careless. He leaned back in his chair until his legs tangled with Michael's beneath the table. “Rum, raw eggs, hell if I know. Never made eggnog in my life.” His manic grin took on a softer tone, something almost sweet in his voice. “Merry Christmas, Mikey.”

With a quiet swear, Michael's younger self took another drink, wincing less with each consecutive sip. Their words began to slur, their actions looser, and Michael smirked to himself to remember such a carefree time.

“Oh, fuck, I almost forgot.” Michael watched as his past self stumbled across the room and reached into his duffel bag, pulling out a shoddily wrapped box. He had tried to tie a bow on top, but it had unraveled somewhere along the way. He grinned brightly as he shoved it into Trevor's hands, swaying a little on his feet.

Trevor blinked slowly, as if he didn't comprehend the practice of opening Christmas presents – which, Michael thought with a surge of guilt, might have been true. He watched as his friend unwrapped the present, pulling out a painted figurine.

“It's from that stupid- that cartoon thing that you like. Impotent Rage, or whatever.” The younger Michael shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets, blushing a little. When Trevor didn't react, apart from staring at the statue, the blush deepened. “It is the right one, right?”

“Yeah, it's the right one, M.” Trevor set the figurine down, his hands more gentle than Michael ever remembered them being, and he stared blankly up at Michael's younger self. “I... didn't get you anything...”

“Hey, don't worry about it,” Michael said brightly, all traces of awkwardness gone. He swayed a little closer and grabbed his glass of questionable eggnog, drinking down the rest of it in ignorance to Trevor's panic.

“I should have- I should have gotten you somethin' Michael.” Trevor stood and ran a hand through his hair, eyes searching the room as if there were an answer tucked into the cobwebbed corners. “Shit- _Shit_. I'm a shitty fucking friend, I know, I _know_ -”

“It's alright, Trev,” the younger Michael said with a laugh, leaning against the table. There was a ruddiness to his cheeks, his eyes glassy from the booze.

“It's not alright!” Trevor's face, in comparison, was pallid. “Look- I can give you a blowjob or somethin', that'd be alright, right?”

Past Michael blinked slowly. “Nah, man, I said it's fine. It's Christmas, just be happy, I don't care.”

It was alarming how quickly Trevor's panic turned to rage. “What, so I'm not good enough, huh? My blowjobs aren't good enough, that it? If that's how you feel, just _say_ it, you fuckin' piece of shit.”

Michael was glad for the near-lethal amounts of alcohol in his younger-self's veins. Instead of brushing it off, as he might have done sober, or adding fuel to the fire, the young Michael just staggered closer and wrapped his arms around Trevor's waist.

“Your blowjobs,” he mumbled, nosing against Trevor's cheek, “are just fine.” With that, he began dragging Trevor across the room, stopping at the bed and dropping them both into a single pile atop the sheets. “Now c'mon, there's no better way to spend Christmas than watching shitty movies with your best friend and passing out drunk.”

Michael watched as Trevor squirmed, still half-caught by his temper, but finally relaxed and let the younger Michael lay across him like a content, albeit extremely intoxicated, housecat.

“God, I wish I remembered that,” he murmured, and the Ghost laughed softly at his side. Michael jumped, having forgotten she was there at all. When he turned towards her, he could see no skin beneath the soft plumage of her feathers, but her smile was still Amanda's.

“My time with you is over,” the Ghost said. The scene began to fade, lost beneath the flurry of snowflakes as gentle and soft as feathery down. Michael lost sight of his guide and when his vision cleared, he was standing alone in the snowy streets of Ludendorff. He knew, in that dreamlike way of _knowing_ , that this was the day of the heist. Something inside of Michael sickened with dread. He did not want to see this.

“I want to wake up,” he murmured. The wind blew sharply and carried the words from his mouth.

“It is not time for you to wake. There is still much for you to see.”

Michael turned and stared at the figure which had taken the first Ghost's place. This apparition was far from the beautiful birdlike woman – the Ghost of Christmas Present was a man, his clothing filthy and torn, and he wore the pelt of a great wolf over his head. The black fur lay seamlessly over the black of his hair, fastened by a simple band of copper, a rusted crown. There was a strength in his stocky body, a solidness that the first Ghost had lacked.

The spirit stared out from the hollows of the wolf's eyes and Michael's stomach turned as he saw that the spirit's eyes were his own.


	3. Chapter Three

 

> _“Will you decide what men shall live, what men shall die? It may be that in the sight of Heaven you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man's child. Oh God! to hear the Insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers in the dust!”_

“Today's not Christmas, you know.” Michael shivered as a cold wind raced along the street. Despite himself, he hurried to keep up with the specter. They passed a man clearing his driveway of snow, heedless to the flakes still falling. The man looked up, as if some far-off noise had caught his attention, but his eyes looked right through Michael. His so-called guide carried on ahead, the wolf pelt streaming behind him like a second shadow. “It won't be Christmas for three days.”

The Ghost waved his hand. “Details, Townley, details.” He finally stopped, wheeling about in the middle of the street to stare at Michael. He drew himself up, chest puffing out in a ridiculous manner which Michael recognized, awkwardly, as his own. “I come with the tolling of the second bell. I am-”

“The Ghost of Christmas Present?” Michael interjected. The spirit glared at him, eyes sharp beneath the wolf-skin hood. “How come you look like me?”

“I don't control the shades. You see only what you intend to see, Townley.” The Ghost continued on his way, cutting a path through the snow. Michael could see that the soles of his feet were bloody and raw, though the spirit showed no sign of pain.

“Well, I intend to see the first Ghost again,” Michael muttered, jamming his hands deep into the pockets of his coat. He wished he had picked something warmer to wear before being whisked away on this spiritual journey – at least he wasn't stuck in a nightshirt and stockings like old Ebeneezer. “She was a lot more friendly than you – and not bad to look at.”

The Ghost gave a cough which sounded suspiciously like laughter. “Don't we all look back on the past with fondness in our hearts, talking of what once was, what used to be? You may like me, or you may not, but I am your guide now.”

Michael narrowed his eyes at the Ghost's back, but followed his quick pace nonetheless. They continued on for some time before the spirit held up one hand, stopping on the side of the street.

“Look now,” murmured the Ghost, his back still to Michael.

Further along, at a bend in the road and between two buildings, Michael spotted the FIB agent. Norton held a sniper rifle steady in his hands, peering down the scope. Further still, three men were approaching. Michael took a few steps closer, but the wind carried a brief swirl of snow, making it impossible to see clearly.

Norton took the shot. One of the men crumpled. Michael could hear shouting, and then the tell-tale rise and fall of sirens in the distance. The agent readied his gun again, firing another round with dead-eye precision. Another body fell, and Michael left his guide behind, jogging forward into the snowy street – but even as he ran, a fog began to fill his vision.

The Ghost stepped out before him, snow caught in the black fur of his hood. “I can't keep you here much longer. Come with me.”

“No, I-” He needed to see what had happened, he needed to _know_. Michael stepped closer to the bodies in the distance, to the swarm of patrol cars closing in, but again the Ghost halted his process. Michael turned his glare sharply onto the spirit. “What happens? Do I die? That's- That's not supposed to happen, Davey said-”

“No, it is not you who dies.” The Ghost sighed. His heavy hand descended onto Michael's shoulder, the nails stubby and black. Michael felt himself begin to fall backwards, his feet sliding on the ice, but before he could hit the ground, the fog enveloped him. When it cleared, he and the spirit stood side-by-side in a hospital room.

A machine beeped quietly, keeping time with the occupant's heartbeat. Beneath the antiseptic and the false smell of evergreen air freshener, there was a lingering stale odor.

Michael stared at his own body laying on the hospital bed. There was a cuff securing one wrist to the railing, but the man didn't look like he'd be up for evading the police, let alone a nurse, for a few days at least. There were deep circles beneath his eyes and his skin looked pale and clammy.

An attractive, heavyset woman wearing scrubs entered the room, beaming and carrying a tray of food. Meatloaf, green beans, and applesauce – it looked about as vile as food could look while still remaining edible. Michael grimaced, and his injured double did as well.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. De Santa,” the nurse said, setting down the tray. The vision of Michael groaned.

“Fuckin' merry, sure,” he muttered. He narrowed his eyes at the woman – though he didn't exactly look very menacing in his state. “They took my cigarettes.”

The nurse raised an eyebrow. “There's no smoking in the hospital, Mr. De Santa.”

Out of habit, Michael – the current one, watching the events transpire from across the room, patted down his jacket. It would seem the Christmas Ghosts had not seen fit to supply him with cigarettes either.

“Alright,” Michael said, glancing over at the Ghost. The black fur of the pelt seemed to sprout from the spirit's very skin, leaving no indication where the hide stopped and the man beneath began. “I thought the Present was all about spreading good cheer and shit. Where's that?”

The Ghost shrugged. Michael sighed.

“Fine, whatever. Alone in a hospital, no Amanda, no Tracey, no Jimmy. But I'm alive.” He paused. “You said- You said that it isn't me who dies. Can you show me who made it out?”

With a nod, the Ghost grabbed Michael's arm. His claws dug into Michael's coat, but before Michael could complain, the fog had taken them somewhere else entirely.

The sky was dark, heavy-laden with clouds. In the alley between a bar and an old brick building, a man hunched over a trash can and vomited noisily.

Michael wrinkled his nose. At least Brad had escaped the-

The man straightened. It wasn't Brad.

“Trev?” Before any other thought could cross his mind, Michael felt a rush of relief. Trevor had made it out. Trevor was safe.

He took in the bruises on Trevor's face, the split lip and bloodshot eyes. His clothes were torn and stained. He looked worse than Michael had ever seen him look.

Trevor staggered to the mouth of the alley and took a deep breath of the chilly air. He shook his head, running one hand through his receding hair, and lifted an empty bottle to the sky.

“Fuck you, M,” he muttered roughly. “Fuckin' _fuck you_.” He rubbed at his eyes, swore again, and threw the bottle as hard as he could at a car on the opposite side of the street. The bottle missed and the life seemed to rush from Trevor's body; he slumped against the alley wall, sinking down to sit amid the rubbish and the snow. “Merry fucking Christmas.”

“Trevor...” Michael stepped forward before the Ghost could stop him, crouching in the grey slush beside his friend. He wanted to reach out and offer whatever comfort he could, even though this was the direct result of everything he had planned – only Trevor was meant to die, and instead he had lived. “Nice to know someone mourned me, at least.”

Shaking his head, Michael rose to his feet and looked for the Ghost's familiar presence – but the figure he saw was hardly a man at all. His fur was matted and torn; blood and viscera dripped from his chin. The rusted crown remained, its sharp edges wearing ragged holes into the spirit's canine ears.

“What happened to you?” Michael asked, and the world around them began to fade. The Christmas of the present was ending. The Ghost stared at him with eyes that mirrored his own.

“You see us for what we truly are – or what you understand us to be.” The spirit turned, yet paused, and glanced over his hunched shoulder. “I would offer you comfort, but there none to spare for you. In turn, I hold no comfort for myself.” The fog enveloped the Ghost as his dark form loped strangely into the ether.

In the snowy in-between, Michael waited. He knew what came – the silent figure, shrouded in black, the ominous hand and the foretelling of his own doom. He had a feeling, though, that he could handle that better than seeing Trevor overcome with grief.

“Mikey.”

The voice made his heart skip a beat; for a moment, Michael thought that he was still in the vision of Christmas present, or else that he had awoken, for when he turned to face the speaker, he saw that it was Trevor.

It was Trevor and yet, at the others had been, it was not. The spirit which stood before him was clothed in the finest furs and silks. He wore a silver coronet upon his head, which twined delicately about his temples and split to form the elegant antlers of a young buck. The spirit's face lacked Trevor's roughness, instead appearing stately and refined, but the familiarity of it left Michael with a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. The spirit walked closer, and his bare feet left no impression in the snow.

“You?” Michael stared, and he found that he was breathless. The fog darkened, the snow and the stars and all light going out. “You're-”

“The Ghost of Christmas fuckin' Future.” Trevor- no, the spirit, the Ghost, not Trevor- grinned, spreading his hands in a wide gesture. “Care to see where you end up, cupcake?”


	4. Chapter Four

 

 

> _“Spirit,” said Scrooge, “show me no more! Conduct me home. Why do you delight to torture me?”_  
>  _“One shadow more!” exclaimed the Ghost._  
>  _“No more,” cried Scrooge. “No more, I don't wish to see it. Show me no more!”_

There was no snow. A city rose to the south, the lights of its towering buildings twinkling to replace the stars hidden by years of smog. The skyline was unfamiliar to him.

“Los Santos...” The Ghost breathed in deeply, one arm slung around Michael's shoulders. “What a shithole, eh? C'mon, you've gotta see this.”

The spirit began walking up the driveway of an expensive-looking house. The lawn was neatly manicured, not a stray leaf or scrap of trash to be seen.

“Wait- This is mine?” Michael stared. The Ghost glanced back, his crown slipping to one side as he smirked – still so infuriatingly Trevor.

“Yeah, sugartits, this is yours. Now get a move on; I may have an eternity, but you don't.”

Michael sighed and followed the spirit, trailing a few feet behind. The door of the house swung open; he was used to this by now, practically a pro when it came to spiritual journeys, and he did not hesitate before stepping over the threshold.

“That's _totally_ unfair!” A young woman stood at the top of the steps, her face red and hands curled into fists. It was Tracey – his little girl, all grown up... though, apparently, not necessarily more mature. “Why _not_?”

“Because it's Christmas!” Ah, that would be Amanda. She looked older, but she was still beautiful and shapely as ever. “You're spending time with your fucking family, not going out clubbing! Now get your ass downstairs before your father _makes_ you.”

Tracey glared over the railing at her mother, full of rage and fury, but she rolled her eyes and stomped down the stairs. Amanda huffed loudly and turned her gaze back to the second floor.

“You too, Jimmy. Put the game down for a goddamn minute.”

After a moment, a door opened and Jimmy dragged himself into sight, looking as bitter as Tracey about leaving the comfort of his room. Michael's eyebrows rose; Jimmy sure had let himself go.

“ _Fine_. But the moment dad starts getting drunk, I'm going back to playing Righteous Slaughter.”

Amanda put her hands on her hips, glaring at her son. “Deal. Just hurry up.”

They headed into the other room and Michael followed, morbidly curious. There was a television screen on the wall – or was it a projector? Either way, it would seem that the tradition of Christmas movie night had been continued... though no one, including Michael's future self, seemed all that happy with the arrangement. Jimmy wasn't the only one who had gotten fat, he noted. The other Michael, beginning to gray and gone soft from living in luxury, was already well into a glass of bourbon.

It was painful to watch. Oh, there was an expertly decorated Christmas tree in the corner, but it was obviously dressed by someone other than the Townley family. There was no festive cheer, no love or camaraderie – just three people with vacant expressions, waiting to be released, all so eager to return to their separate corners of the household. If his future self noticed, he didn't show it beyond pouring himself another drink.

This was what he sold his fucking soul for? _This_ was what he betrayed Trevor, betrayed Brad and Lester and the rest of his crew, for?

Unable to stomach any more stilted family interactions, Michael swore under his breath and headed out the door. The Ghost remained, standing stoically before the house.

“Why are you showing me all of this?” Michael demanded. He'd had enough of this dream, whatever the hell it was. “Not just you- past, present, fucking all of this? I'm no Scrooge! Alright, I'm a bad person, not exactly news. I rob, cheat, lie, murder, _sure_ , but-”

The Ghost glared at him through Trevor's eyes, tilting his head as Michael trailed off in his tirade. The gleaming horns of his silver crown caught the light; they were as sharp as knives. Michael was transfixed by the sight and he found that he could not speak, or even consider the possibility of moving, until the specter had turned his reproachful gaze away. The Ghost walked from the house, not crushing a single blade of grass beneath his cloven hooves. Certainly the spirit had walked on bare feet as the others had before – when did that transformation take place?

With a final glance into the De Santa household, Michael shook his head and followed his guide. He felt nothing but contempt for the man he would become. If that was truly who he would be in ten years time, a wretched thing that was less than a man, maybe he was better off dead after all.

“I've seen what I needed to see,” Michael spat. “I'm done.”

“There's one more shadow for you to face, Mikey,” said the specter. His crown was the only light in the consuming darkness. “Just one, and you'll wake up warm and cozy in your bed, I promise.”

“Fine. Show me.” Michael ground his teeth. Nothing could be worse than what he had already seen.

When the darkness parted, he saw around him the derelict state of a trailer park. There was trash and rusted metal heaped against the chain-link fence, a beaten-up truck in the drive. Michael stared up at the trailer, with its dented siding and twisted antenna, and knew what he was about to be shown.

“Oh, T...”

After seeing a vision of the Christmas following Ludendorff, Michael had assumed Trevor would have gotten himself killed somehow. In a bar fight, in the wilderness, drinking himself to death or running off the road. Hell, Michael would have even bet on the cops catching up to Trevor eventually, maybe even putting him down without realizing what a sick puppy they had on their hands.

Michael never wanted to see his friend like this.

Trevor looked older, aged by drugs and, perhaps, by grief. He had acquired a number of tattoos and more than a few scars amid the sores on his skin. He was sprawled out on the stained cushions of his couch, his eyes glassy and mouth slack – high out of his mind, if the meth pipe dangling from his fingers was any indication.

“God, Trev... I never meant for this to happen. _Fuck_.” Michael felt a weight on his shoulders, pressing down and fixing him to the spot.

Trevor's eyes met his own. There was a spark of recognition, a flash of shock and hurt, but it was gone in a heartbeat. Trevor mumbled something incoherent, his head lolling back on the couch. Michael could see the tattoos on his neck – the dotted line and _Cut Here_. It was painful to see, but didn't quite hurt as badly as the tattoo on his arm, the one that spelled out Michael's name and _R. I. P._

The world began to fade away, darkness creeping in from the corners of his vision.

No. He wasn't done yet.

“The future- It doesn't have to be like this!” Michael swallowed, shaking his head to ward off the dizziness. Somewhere in the vision, Trevor groaned and shut his eyes. “I can change this! I can make it different. What if- Show me something different. Take me back to North Yankton!”

Michael rounded on his guide but stopped in his tracks, fearful of the Ghost's transformation. The silver crown, so delicate in its making, now rose from the spirit's temples as antlers of bone. His neck had been cut, as the throat of deer are cut and left to bleed before the meat is taken.

“The shadows can't harm you, Mikey,” the Ghost said. Blood gurgled from the jagged tear in his throat. “You see what you want to see.”

“Then I want to see Ludendorff,” Michael said, his heart feeling like stone in his chest. “Show me.”

The darkness overtook his vision.

\- - -

Michael stumbled over a patch of ice, the cold of the snow seeping into his shoes. The solid weight of the duffel bag on his back shifted as he tried to regain balance, and he staggered again. A hand caught his arm and he righted himself, turning to meet Trevor's eyes.

“Alright?”

“Yeah, T. Thanks.”

Brad was a few yards ahead, swearing into the frigid wind as he scanned the horizon. There was no sign of the helicopter – there _was_ no helicopter.

“I'm gonna check around back,” Trevor called. He nodded to Michael and set off to the right. For a moment Michael's head spun, the world tilting all around him. He reached out his hand, opened his mouth, but he felt like he was being held beneath the water, his thoughts clumsy and slow.

The crack of a gun sounded. Trevor crumpled and hit the ground.

“Holy fuck!” Brad lost his footing for a moment, skidding as he dove for cover. “Someone must have talked! _Fuck_!”

Brad took off running. Michael swayed in the road. Every sound in the world faded beneath the roar of blood in his ears.

Trevor's sharp groan of pain brought him back to his senses and Michael threw himself down, barely missing the whine of a bullet rushing past. He crawled to Trevor's side, his fingers numb against the frozen ground.

There was blood in the snow, melting the ice into red slush.

“Oh god.” Michael couldn't think; his brain felt as though it was stuffed with cotton. Trevor coughed and there was a catch in his throat. His body convulsed with the pain of simply breathing. There was blood on his lips.

The rise and fall of sirens was not far off.

Michael pulled Trevor into his arms, shaking from the cold, shaking from fear.

“Trevor- _Trevor_! Listen to me, it's gonna be alright, it's-”

Trevor shook his head, his face as white as the ice at their feet. “ _Go_ ,” he grunted, paling further. The heat of his blood spread onto the front of Michael's chest. Michael pressed his hand against the wound, and his vision blurred. He blinked the tears from his eyes.

“I'm not leavin' you,” he murmured. Trevor's breathing was uneven, his eyes unfocused. He closed his eyes – Michael shook him and they snapped opened, focusing briefly on Michael's face above.

“Fuckin'... idiot.”

“Yeah,” Michael said, squeezing Trevor tightly in his arms. He didn't look up as half a dozen police cars screamed into sight, sliding in the snow and churning it into mud. “Fuckin' A right I am. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry... Trevor, please, c'mon, you've gotta hold on, you've...”

The barrels of twenty guns aimed at his head. The faint clicks as the cops cocked their pistols, their frightened eyes peering down the sights. The howl of the wind. The blood on the snow, the blood on his clothes. Trevor closed his eyes and this time they did not open.

 


	5. Chapter Five

 

> _“Spirit!” he cried, tight clutching at its robe, “hear me! I am not the man I was. I will not be the man I must have been but for this intercourse. Why show me this, if I am past all hope?”_

The darkness crept into his vision. The snow which fell was crimson in color and landed hot and wet on his skin, like summer rain, like tears. He tried to hold on to the heavy weight in his arms, but it was being dragged away. With every ounce of strength he had, Michael refused to let them take Trevor – but he slipped from Michael's hands, too slick with blood, too weak with pain.

Michael fell. His vision blurred. The darkness closed in around him and he felt as if he were held deep beneath the water by many hands. He struggled to open his eyes and was blinded by a bright light shining overhead.

“Wh-” Michael swallowed to ease his dry throat, his head spinning. The smell of blood still lingered in his nose, but beneath was the smell of disinfectant and pine needles. He could hear a faint beeping to his right; squinting, he glanced around the room, growing frantic. “Trevor- T, where-”

The steel edge of the handcuff bit into his wrist as Michael moved his arm, securing him to the hospital bed. He stared, uncomprehending, and horror like ice water shot through his veins as he began to remember: North Yankton, Dave Norton, one shot, a clean kill - and one to wound. The deal he had cut. The selling of his soul.

“No,” Michael mumbled, jerking at the restraint. The dream- The Ghosts- What about his second chance? He was supposed to fix this, to find a way to make it right! “ _No_! This isn't right! _This isn't right_!”

He struggled to move and pain burst like white stars in his vision; he felt the stitches on his chest begin to tear, blood spilling hot over his skin and spreading across the stark white of his hospital gown. Michael screamed, not from the physical hurting but something _deeper_. The door banged open and two nurses rushed in, their hands pressing hard against his chest, pushing him down against the bed.

“ _Trevor_!”

“Fuck, Mikey, I'm right here!”

Michael startled awake, his body jerking like he'd grabbed on to a live wire. His vision spun drunkenly before his eyes had time to focus; he was drenched in sweat but, with the dream still lingering in the forefront of his mind, it felt as sticky and cloying as blood.

The darkness resolved itself into the landscape of the motel room. The television played mutely in the distance. A streetlamp cast a soft golden light into the room; outside, it had stopped snowing.

Trevor was half-kneeling on the bed, rubbing his hand awkwardly against Michael's chest. With his hair sticking up oddly from sleeping, stained clothes and scars and faded tattoos and so brilliantly _alive_ , he looked better than anything Michael had ever seen.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Michael muttered, grabbing Trevor by the back of his neck and hauling him down. He crushed their mouths together into something just shy of a kiss, his thumb slotted just beneath Trevor's ear, rubbing distractedly. He could feel Trevor tense, a heartbeat from pulling back, then relax against him.

Michael rolled Trevor onto his back, one thigh between Trevor's legs to nudge them apart. There was desperation in the way he rutted against the other man, already half hard.

“Michael-” Trevor began, but whatever he was about to say was cut short by Michael nipping at his lip, and Michael's hand working open the front of his jeans, reaching in to cup his dick.

“Shut up.”

It only worked for a moment. Trevor was irritatingly hard-headed like that. “Mikey-”

Michael propped himself up on one elbow, his hand still wrapped around Trevor's semi. From the way Trevor fell silent, the overwhelming need Michael felt must have shown on his face.

“Shut _up_ ,” he growled, “and just... Just let me.”

Trevor stared up at him for a moment, the wheels in his brain turning, but how was Michael to explain the things he had seen? His heart ached with the knowledge of what he had been prepared to do, to sacrifice, for his own selfish desires.

“Whatever you want, M,” Trevor muttered, and Michael had never loved him more. Trevor leaned forward and rucked Michael's shirt up, palms rough and fingernails scratching over the skin of Michael's back, making him shudder. Michael leaned further back and Trevor followed, letting Michael yank his shirt off in return. In sharp contrast to his hurried actions before, Michael's touches now were almost reverent.

The skin of Trevor's back was hot under Michael's hands. The thrum of his heartbeat became the center of Michael's world. He lost himself in the feeling of Trevor's skin, the urging of Trevor's hips below his; he pushed the memory of gunshots and snow and death from his mind. Michael bent low to drag his tongue across Trevor's throat, mouthing wetly at the unmarked skin. There was no tattoo of a dotted line, no challenge to cut him open, no jagged tear of flesh. He sucked at the point of Trevor's pulse - filling his mouth with the taste of salt, of sweat, of skin, until he forgot the metallic tang of blood - and Trevor moaned.

“Off,” Trevor growled. He tugged at the front of Michael's jeans, his pupils blown wide with lust. Michael had no choice but to comply; by the time he had kicked his legs free from the restricting material, Trevor had procured a mostly empty, slightly sticky, bottle of lube from God-only-knows-where, and was already naked and rolling onto his stomach.

Michael stopped him with one hand on Trevor's waist, thumb pressed against the hollow of his hip. “Nah, like this,” he said quietly, glaring when Trevor raised an eyebrow. Mercifully, Trevor didn't comment, but settled back on the bed and wrapped a hand around the base of his dick, stroking it like he was getting ready for a show.

Wasting no time, Michael ignored his friend's theatrics and tilted the contents of the bottle into his palm. Trevor took one finger easily enough. Two made him grunt, but he spread his legs and tugged distractedly at his dick, his eyes falling half-lidded. Michael clenched his teeth, his own dick hard as a fucking rock, and added a third finger. He curled them tight and pressed up until Trevor's breath caught and he tossed his head back, gripping the base of his cock and shuddering.

“Alright, alright, enough, _fuck_.” Trevor opened one eye and tilted his head back against the pillow, his teeth bared like it was a challenge. “Quit bein' a pussy, and fuck me.”

Michael's eyes narrowed and he tugged his fingers free, roughly slicking himself with the remainder of the lube. Trevor was still too tight when he pressed in, but Michael didn't let up until he saw the flare of pain in the other man's eyes. Even then, when he paused just to let him adjust, Trevor snarled and hooked one leg over Michael's thigh, forcing him deeper.

“Don't you fuckin' go easy,” he muttered, his eyes wild. Michael smirked and slammed his hips forward, watching pain and satisfaction war on Trevor's face.

“I wouldn't dare.”

It was fucking, plain and simple – carnal in every sense of the word. Michael didn't let up until he was trembling. Trevor gave as good as he got, swearing and groaning, rolling his hips up to meet every thrust. Michael could feel the sweat of their bodies where their skin touched, the heat that seemed to crackle as they panted and gasped, sharing the same air. It stripped him raw, laid him bare, and he couldn't fucking stand it. He was coming apart, right down to his soul.

Trevor's cock was a searing brand against his stomach, leaving a slick trail on his skin with every thrust of Michael's hips. He felt Trevor shift below him, his back arching off the bed, and each pant for breath ended in a faint moan. The ragged edges of his nails, chewed to the quick, scores deeply into the skin of Michael's back as Trevor shuddered, his hips jerking instinctively; he came hot and wet between their bodies and Michael grit his teeth, burying his face in the crook of Trevor's neck.

“C'mon,” he heard Trevor urge, “ _c'mon_.”

With Trevor's body like a vice around him, so real and whole and fucking _perfect_ , it wasn't long before Michael was coming too. His body shook, his breath coming in ragged gulps, and Michael let his weight rest against Trevor's fever-hot skin until the other man shoved at his shoulder. He rolled to the side and fumbled blindly for his coat, digging out a half-crushed pack of cigarettes.

There was silence, save for their slowly steadying breaths, the faint click and flare of a lighter. Finally, Trevor groaned, stretching and wiping himself off.

“Man, the fuck's gotten into you?”

Good ol' Trevor. He hadn't changed a bit – but why would he? Michael was the one who had been on the _spiritual_ fucking _journey_. He glanced to the side as he filled his lungs with harsh smoke. “Nothing. Fuck off.”

“Alright.” Trevor held his hands up in surrender. His eyes narrowed and he snatched the cigarette from between Michael's fingers, then took a drag himself. “Whatever you say, Mikey. Only you don't fuck like that 'less we've just outrun the cops.”

Michael wanted to glare at the other man, but he didn't have the energy. “It was... just a dream, it's nothin'.”

“Uh huh.”

“I dreamed you died, okay?” He grabbed the cigarette back and finished it in a proper chain-smoker fashion.

Trevor stared at him, long enough to make Michael's cheeks burn. “It was just a dream,” Trevor said quietly. He sat up, shoving his shoulder against Michael's side, both of them still sticky with sweat. Michael didn't mind; Trevor seemed not to care, either. “This about tomorrow? No one's gonna die.”

“No, it's not that, it's...” Michael swallowed. “Shit, T... Yeah, it's about tomorrow. I-” He couldn't tell Trevor. He could _never_ tell Trevor. Whatever he did, however the heist ended, what they had in this moment would be gone. Michael's gaze hardened; he wasn't going to let that happen. “Let's go. Right now, let's go.”

Trevor's eyebrows rose. “Go...?”

“Forget the robbery. Forget Brad. Oh, fuck, forget Amanda. Let's get out of here, you and me, just like it used to be.”

“Mikey- Uh, are you on any drugs I don't know about? 'Cause this doesn't sound like-”

“I don't care.” Michael laughed, something strained in the sound. “Trevor, I don't give a fuck. Now, are you coming or not?”

Trevor didn't hesitate. “Of course I am.” He rolled out of bed, grabbing his discarded clothing before Michael could even untangle himself from the blankets. “Where're we headed?”

“Somewhere... warm.” Before he could stop himself, Michael smiled. “I hear Los Santos is nice this time of year.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a wild ride – though I can't help but wonder where Michael and Trevor go from here. I like to think they get away with it all (though maybe Brad still gets himself arrested, 'cause he is a bit of a dick). Maybe a few years down the road, Michael calls Lester up and apologizes. Maybe they get filthy rich and rule Los Santos. Maybe Michael and Amanda settle their differences and go their separate ways, with Michael still around to provide for the kids and spoil them rotten. And maybe, just maybe, he meets a kid named Franklin who's got a whole lot of promise and takes him under his wing. Maybe Michael and Trevor get to have a happy ending after all.
> 
> That's a story for another time – but now, before you go, allow me to say, with utmost sincerity: thank you for reading. A very special thanks to Synekdokee, for making the angst in this story even worse (better?). And many thanks, again, to Aja, for putting up with my rambling.


End file.
